


she is a warrior tattoo

by singmyheart (orphan_account)



Series: shed my skin [1]
Category: Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Clint Barton Is a Good Bro, F/M, Light Dom/sub, Non-Sexual Submission, Sort of? - Freeform, Steve is Confused, tony is really good at beer pong
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-01
Updated: 2013-03-01
Packaged: 2017-12-03 23:21:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/703811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/singmyheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He feels wrong-footed; the way you do when you’ve spent a night away from home and wake up in an unfamiliar bed, like he has to take a second to remember where he is. It’s not an entirely unpleasant feeling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	she is a warrior tattoo

When Tony invites the team to move into the newly christened AvengersTower, Bruce is the first to accept. Steve is the last.

Everyone else is moved in when he finally lets Clint nag him into it, over dirty-water hot dogs near Times Square. “Dude,” Clint says more earnestly than Steve would have thought him capable of, “I know you’re not, like, president of the Family Stark fan club, or whatever, but he kind of grows on you. And the place is big enough that you can avoid him if you start feeling murdery. And I realize that borscht is disgusting in theory but Tasha makes it all the time – it’s literally the only thing she knows how to cook without giving anyone food poisoning, and if you tell her I told you I’m gonna strangle you with your stupid cowl – and it’s fuckin’ delicious, okay. _And_ Thor and Bruce totally miss you.” Steve snorts. Clint pushes his aviators onto the top of his head, claps Steve on the shoulder, and tosses a wad of napkins into a trashcan twenty feet behind him without looking. “Seriously, come by sometime. It won’t be as weird as you think it will. Scout’s honor.”

“You’re not a sc—“

“ _Not the point_ , man.”

Steve laughs and punches him in the arm, tells him he’ll think about it. He’s pretty sure Clint knows what he means, though.

\-------

 

Clint wears him down, eventually. Steve suspects, in hindsight, that all those nights out drinking with Thor were premeditated for exactly this reason. People don’t give Clint enough credit as a tactician.

\------

 

Jarvis gives Steve the rundown while he unpacks: directions (what the hell, he now lives in a place big enough to necessitate the giving of directions), security details, the whole bit. He’s not really sure how Jarvis works, or what he does, or what he is, but figures it’d be rude to ask. He’s not sure he’ll ever get used to the walls talking to him.

After a quick and blisteringly hot shower he wanders down into the common area, sketchbook in hand. Tony and Thor are playing beer pong (Steve’s not clear on the rules, but it looks like Tony’s pretty good at it) while Clint waits to play the winner, sitting (Steve tries not to think _perching_ ) on the back of an armchair, perfectly balanced on the balls of his feet. Bruce chimes in every so often, making jokes behind his beer with a deadpan to rival Coulson’s. Steve makes a mental note to ask if either of them play poker.

Natasha is reading when he comes to sit next to her on the couch, some trashy-looking Harlequin romance in her hand and a glass of white wine next to her on the floor. She’s barefoot, wearing a wifebeater and sweats, her face free of makeup and a tiny, disdainful wrinkle in her brow.

“How’s the book?” he asks as she tucks her toes under his thigh.

“Awful,” she replies without looking up. Steve lets it slide.

He decides to draw instead, and doesn’t realize Natasha’s been watching him until she asks to see it. “Do you mind?” She gestures for the sketchbook.

“Not at all.” He relinquishes it, curls a hand around her ankle. “And you?”

“Be my guest.” She settles her feet in his lap and lets out a groan – long, genuine and deeply content, low in her throat – when his thumb kneads her arch. He tries not to blush and fails miserably; unruffled, she studies his drawing. It shows Tony and Thor at opposite ends of the coffee table, the little white ball in mid-bounce, Thor’s arm still up like he’s just let go of it. He’s all rippling, corded muscle underneath his too-tight _Princess Bride_ t-shirt (he hasn’t quite gotten the hang of Midgardian sizing yet, and he _loves The Princess Bride;_ privately Steve thinks he over-identifies with Fezzik) his hair is falling out of its braid and his ever-present grin is firmly in place, eyes bright and a little glassy. Across from him Tony’s mouth is half-open and slanted, caught between laughter and trash talk, a little drunk, loose, apparently unaware that his hand is resting in a puddle of beer. Bruce is off to one side, as relaxed as Steve’s ever seen him. “This is really good, you know.” Natasha looks up at him, brushes a stray curl out of her face.

Steve dips his chin involuntarily, can’t meet her gaze. “Thanks, Natasha.”

“You’re welcome,” she returns, and it almost sounds warm. “And if you stop what you’re doing I’ll kill you in your sleep, god, this feels amazing.” She stretches, as lazily as she ever does anything, her entire body loosening in one graceful, sinuous roll.

“I bet you say that to all the guys,” Steve teases, but his throat is suddenly inexplicably dry.

They let a while pass in companionable silence, watching the others bicker good-naturedly and get steadily drunker; at some point Natasha’s hand comes to rest on the back of Steve’s neck, her fingers running absently through the damp ends of his hair. He tries to ignore the heat creeping down his spine and resists the bizarre urge to lean his face into her touch, like a cat.

By the time the others decide to call it a night, Natasha’s eased back to lie down with her head on the couch’s armrest, half-asleep; Steve, however, is hyper-aware of her hand having moved to his waist, her nails raising goosebumps on the patch of bare skin where his t-shirt rides up, brushes his thumb back and forth over the jut of her ankle.

He bids Tony, Bruce, Thor and Clint good night; Clint winks at him on the way out.

Steve reaches for Natasha’s shoulder and shakes her gently awake, which he regrets immediately when she nearly breaks his wrist. “Assassin, Steve.”

“Uh, right, I just – um,” he says, intelligently.

She loosens her grip, but leaves her hand on his arm when he straightens back up. He tries not to notice the warmth of her palm bleeding through his sleeve. He’s still rubbing absent circles onto the skin of her ankle, stops himself when he realizes, but she says, “No, don’t stop.” Just like that.

Something in her tone makes him look her in the eye. It’s not a command, but it’s not exactly a request, either; the weight of it makes his stomach drop, that brief, giddy-terrified feeling he remembers from the roller coasters at Coney Island. “Yes, ma’am,” he replies, aiming for playful but the way his voice cracks probably ruins the effect. He clears his throat.

Natasha doesn’t stop him when he dips his hand tentatively underneath her pant leg to rub her calf, like he’d been expecting and half-fearing; instead she turns over to stretch out on her stomach, folding her arms under her chin. There’s a brief moment of awkwardness as Steve tries to figure out how to orient himself: Natasha just waits patiently and doesn’t appear to object when he straddles her, eases his weight onto her thighs and skims his fingers underneath the hem of her top, over the dimples at the small of her back. Her skin is warm and creamy pale and rent with long, faded scars. Steve’s palms are clammy.

He doesn’t know how long they go on like this, with him kneading the muscles in her back and shoulders and her directing him every so often, murmuring instructions or praise of one or two words, all in the same way as before; that tone of voice that’s liquefying his spine. When he gets to a particularly tense spot in her left shoulder she sighs and pushes up into his hand; it occurs to him, with a sudden, mortifying clarity that he’s hard, and that there’s no way she hasn’t noticed. He looks at her and her eyes are closed.

Eventually she tells him to be done, a simple “Okay, you can stop,” and he does, climbs off of her and averts his eyes while she stands and straightens her clothes. She picks up her book and empty wine glass, holds out the latter to him, smiles – “Would you?”

“Yeah, I – yeah, okay.” Steve takes it from her, leaves it in the kitchen sink, and when he comes back a second later she’s waiting for him. He feels wrong-footed; the way you do when you’ve spent a night away from home and wake up in an unfamiliar bed, like he has to take a second to remember where he is. It’s not an entirely unpleasant feeling.

He wonders if Natasha feels the same. It doesn’t seem like she does: she steps into his space, leaning up, fingers light on his forearm, to kiss him on the cheek. “Night, Steve.”

Steve almost thanks her; thankfully he reins it in. “Night, Tasha.” He doesn’t know why he uses the nickname and she doesn’t comment; just smiles and turns to head for the elevator, leaves him standing there, acutely aware of the warm, damp spot on his face where her mouth had touched him. 


End file.
